Perfect Shot

by Debbie Rigaud

  The next person was encouraged to say a few words. And then the next. By the time I was next to speak, I had to muster the courage not to run out of the boutique. Everyone was gorgeous, polished, and fashion conscious. And it was increasingly obvious that I was selected as the token jock of the bunch. They let me in to tip the beauty scale. Apparently, one of me must bring enough averageness to balance out fourteen stunning girls.

  I was cut off before I even uttered a word. The disruption of a group of heavy walkers carrying clanking equipment snapped everyone off their focus.

  Rock Star Didier stretched his torso and peered over our heads to get a clear view of the interrupters.

  “Just one moment while I have a word with my photography crew.” Didier held up his finger, signaling for me to hold my thought.

  Now would be a good time to make for the exit, I thought. A redheaded man with a shoulder bag of equipment greeted the panel and then began speaking to Didier in hushed tones. Three people tagged behind that man and politely waited a respectful distance away on the sidelines for the conversation to be over. I suspected who one of those three people was. I had a sudden strong feeling in my bones that I was being watched.

  My eyes led me to the person examining me with Superman-like vision. Brent St. John, photography intern, didn’t seem to mind that he was caught staring. He looked right back at me. I was the first to look away.

  If there had been a look of deep yearning and flaming desire in his eyes, maybe I would’ve held his gaze. But his watchfulness was simply observant—in the least romantic way possible. If he were the whistling type, right at that moment, he’d blow out a whistle-while-you-work ditty rather than a construction-site-catcall whistle. His look was more Hunh, she made the final fifteen, than Yes, we meet again.

  If only the exit could have crept to me. That way, one nonchalant side step would have gotten me outta there unnoticed.

  “Next, please.” Didier was finished chatting with the head photographer and looked at me expectantly. “Let’s continue the intros with the alluring mademoiselle with the fabulous hair.”

  I almost turned around to see who he was talking about.

  “My name is London Abrams” I heard myself say. “I was born and raised in Teawood, and I never thought much about how special or cool that was until Cynthea Bey started highlighting all the good this community does. Now I feel more proud of my hometown and of its people.”

  There was a long silence after I said the last word. Everyone thought that my sentence would come to a more obviously definitive end, so they gave me time to complete my thought. But that was all I had to say. I didn’t know how to wrap things up in a more full-stop way. Maybe they expected me to end with a high-pitched whoop like kids on that old TRL show. My fantasy best friend Didier was the first to realize that I was done speaking.

  “Thank you, Londres,” he said, translating my name into French. For all the comments, questions, and wisecracks that name has brought me (“I see London, I see France …”), I’d never had anyone come up with that one. That was mad hot. I wouldn’t mind being called Londres. If I ever became an eccentric musician like Björk or became, like, the female ODB, I would straight-up change my name to that. No doubt.

  Once introductions were out of the way, the photographers began setting up their equipment and the judges placed us in five groups of three.

  “Now, let’s see what you’re all about, ladies.” All the humor of her initial intro was lost from judge Monica’s voice. She had switched into work mode and ditched the pleasantries. “We don’t expect cover girl quality photos today. Just experiment and become familiar with having a professional camera pointed at you. These shots are for your online bio.”

  Monica called out the names of three girls and asked the rest of us to follow Asha to a break room in the back of the store.

  The three girls looked a bit confused. I knew how they felt. I wasn’t sure if my group was lucky not to be chosen or if that trio lucked out by getting their photo shoot over with first.

  The rest of us walked through an employees-only door and down a narrow hallway to an open area where a long table and fold-up chairs were flanked by vending machines and a large white refrigerator.

  “Please grab a seat and make yourselves comfortable,” Asha said and began handing out questionnaires for us to fill out during the wait. “Be honest in your answers. And remember to let your personalities shine through. Be as deep, funny, witty, or dramatic as you’d like. This will be our readers’ introduction to you.”

  As dramatic as I want? I thought. How’s this for drama? I don’t belong in this contest. I feel like this is a huge mistake.

  The only time I looked up from my paper was when I reached for a pen in the center of the table. Sitting next to the contestants made me feel inadequate as it was. I didn’t need reminders of how much more fly their look was.

  A few minutes later, three of us were led to the small set of the photo shoot. Brent was nowhere to be found. Just my luck that he was assisting the photographer working on a separate group of girls. I felt gypped. I skipped work for nothing.

  “London, you first,” Asha announced.

  I get the feeling she doesn’t like me, I inwardly sulked. But dutifully I parked myself on the bar stool planted in front of the white canvas background. The two other girls in my group watched from the sidelines, ready to learn from my mistakes.

  Not knowing what else to do, I looked straight into the lens, tilted my head to the right, and smiled.

  The photographer had barely snapped two shots of me in this pose when Asha interrupted. “This isn’t a yearbook picture, ladies. Be expressive, and show some energy and personality.”

  This was embarrassing. I didn’t know whether I should frame my face with my hands or growl like Catwoman.

  Help came in the form of something unexpected. The moment the photo intern turned on a small wind machine in the corner of the set, my inner Naomi Campbell showed up. (I didn’t even know I had one of those!) Something about being in the spotlight while feeling that breeze on my face and through my hair was exhilarating. Suddenly I discovered that I was on a swivel seat. I swung around. My back to the camera, I turned my head and looked piercingly into the lens. Next, I secured one foot on the floor and rotated my body so that I could rock some profile swag.

  Ciara’s “Click Flash” started playing in my head. I guess Beyoncé videos were unofficial modeling tutorials because I was totally diva channeling.

  “Nice!” the photographer repeated between flashes. “Looking good.”

  What was surprising to me was that that’s exactly how I felt.

  Time may heal wounds, but it also has a way of chipping away at your confidence. I left the shoot riding high off that feeling you get after you’ve just aced an exam. But within a few hours, doubt settled in. I got to wondering if all that pose striking had struck the wrong chord. And as much as I said it to myself, my “what’s done is done” mantra didn’t chase away that nervous energy.

  Volleyball turned out to be the best antidote for my lost mojo. I headed home and practiced some power serves and spikes against the unfinished basement wall until my head cleared.

  Later that evening I forced myself to take a peak at Face’s site. I told myself I’d only skim through the contest post and check out everyone’s head shots and questionnaire answers. I started out feeling curious and ended up being pleasantly surprised.

  Is that me? I hardly recognized myself. A different side of me came out in the photos. I actually looked modelly.

  The reader votes were in. My approval rating was high enough to save me from the bottom three (I placed twelfth).

  Not bad for a token jock.

  Five

  I saw the e-mail before I heard the voice mail.

  The computer-generated message in my inbox from Facemag.com simply listed one thing. His name: Brent St. John.

  Giddy with anticipation, I listened to the message on my cell phone. It ha
d been turned off during the Sunday matinee movie I took in with the fam.

  “Hello, London, congratulations on placing in the top twelve of Chic Boutique’s Face of Spring competition. Now onto the next challenge,” contest judge Asha Kumar’s recorded drone began. “A shadow photographer has been assigned to each contestant. On one unspecified day this week, that photographer will pay you a surprise visit and document what you routinely do. In the next hour, look out for the e-mail naming who your shadow photographer will be. Good luck!”

  I replayed the entire message a few times more.

  Brent St. John had been named my shadow photographer. Shadow photographer! That meant that he would have to follow me around. I couldn’t believe how this was all playing right into my hands. I felt like a villain in one of those retro Boomerang cartoons. All I needed was a signature maniacal laugh.

  Come Monday morning, I woke up early and spent close to an hour getting my outfit game-tight. The open-sleeved, flowy top tucked into my booty-enhancing pair of boyfriend-fit cords worked the right look without trying too hard.

  At school I freshened up my lip gloss on my way to each class just in case Brent popped out from behind a locker or underneath a staircase.

  When the last period of the day came and went without a sign of Brent, I didn’t think too much of it. Sure, I’d gotten dressed for the occasion, but it was no biggie. It was only Monday, and the judges said photographers would show up sometime that week.

  But by the time I was heading to Algebra III, my last period class on Tuesday, I was a bit disappointed that Brent was a no-show. I’d have to come up with an extra cute look for yet another day. At this rate, the pile of reject clothes that I created that morning would only rise higher as the week went on. I didn’t think I could keep this up for three more days.

  Lost in thought, I wasn’t focused on ignoring Rick as usual. Not even bothering to take the back way to my desk, I made a beeline from the front blackboard. Aside from the occasional Rick sighting at my volleyball games, algebra was the only time we were guaranteed to cross paths. In fact— as unluck would have it—my assigned seat was right next to Rick’s. For weeks following our breakup, I had a crick in my neck from keeping my head rigidly straight. I barely even sneezed in his direction.

  The class chatter quieted down as soon as our notoriously strict math teacher, Mr. Asante, entered the room. His back looked firm even though he was carrying a few hefty books. The man has become a legend at Teawood High and in the entire school district. Because he has zero tolerance, kids call him Mr. Z—but not to his face. It’s not that he’s intimidating in a menacing, loud way. Mr. Z doesn’t raise his voice and he’s not even a towering figure. His old-school teaching swag is influenced by his West African roots. He translates his traditional approach enough for us Westerners to understand. For example, he allows no excuses—especially because of all the luxuries and trimmings he says we get living a middle-class American lifestyle. Laziness is not tolerated. Blame no one but yourself for your failures. And so on. These are only his caveats. His actual rules are an entirely different animal.

  Back in September, resentful kids tried but failed to blame their low grades on what they called an inability to understand Mr. Z’s foreign accent. When enabler-type parents took the complaint to the principal, Z pointed to the neat, tidy numbers on the board and noted, “I don’t write with an accent.”

  I took out my notebook and copied the elegant equations he was now writing on the board. From the corner of my eye I could see Unslick Rick checking me out. Even though I was rocking a trendy H&M jumpsuit, I didn’t get why he was staring. A month ago, when I was dressed up for an after-school event, he didn’t take any notice. I wondered what all the fuss was today. Despite Mr. Z’s keep-your-focus-on-your-own-desk policy, Rick’s eyeballs were all up in my business. It’s like guys have radar for when a girl has stopped thinking about them. I think he can smell that my mind is on another guy went my internal aha moment.

  “Yo, London,” whispered Rick, who was now slouching toward my desk. He leaned down and looked me in my eye for the first time in probably months. “Let me borrow a pencil?”

  I could see that he already had a pencil on his desk. A dull, short one no longer than a preschooler’s thumb, but a working pencil nonetheless.

  It had become sort of a hater move. Kids in this class knew all too well that one of the rules was “Borrowing is permitted. Lending is prohibited.” If you were caught lending someone anything, you—not the borrower—paid the price. Instead of penalizing the unprepared person, it pointed a finger at the lender’s enabler tendencies.

  If you got caught, Mr. Z didn’t blow up your spot in front of everyone. He simply made a note of your offense in his grade book. Come report card time, you’d be the one scratching your head and wondering why your average was a few points lower than calculated.

  So with this in mind, anyone who tried to make a lender out of another student was just doing it to mess with their GPA. It was the closest thing to “fun” kids could have in this class.

  I ignored Rick (and the beating in my chest) outright. When he asked again— this time with a flirty look in his eye and a playfulness in his voice—I betrayed myself by looking at him. He saw this as a good sign and smiled. His eyes searched my face and then rolled down from my lips to my shoulders and then to my chest.

  I didn’t know what he was reminiscing about because we never took it there.

  Time to shut it down. I’d already given away too much of my feelings. I pretended to look bored with Rick and then rolled my eyes and focused on the board. It seemed to work. Rick was back to his usual slouching-away-from-dumped-ex-girlfriend position in his seat.

  “I know the tricks because I have beeen a stu-dant before,” Mr. Z was saying to a kid fighting sleep in the most obvious way. “You have nevah beeen a tee-cha.”

  Apparently, Rick wasn’t the only one who was trying to run game during this period.

  When the bell rang, I dashed toward the exit. I thought rushing would give Unslick Rick the hint not to walk me to my locker or anything. But that was arrogant thinking. My final glimpse of him proved dude wasn’t even checking for me. He was smoothing down his nonexistent goatee and staring hard at some girl’s legs.

  Such a user.

  I didn’t know why I felt bothered. This should’ve come as no surprise to me. I mean, it was obvious he was just messing with my head during class. The boy had no sense of remorse and no genuine feelings. If it were up to him, he’d have me humping his ankle like a puppy dog and begging for a tummy rub.

  To think, Rick used to be a decent person. Unless I was totally blind to his shadiness, he was not the same guy I used to go out with. It amazed me how in just one summer, Rick’s head grew at the same rate as his athletic skills. He was clearly one of those people who would deny his own mama if he ever made it big. I didn’t even recognize him anymore. It was no use thinking about our relationship. Everything we’d talked about or done over the eight months we hung out together now felt like a lie.

  Considering my poor judgment in choosing Rick as a boyfriend, I wondered if setting my sights on Brent was such a great idea. When I met Rick, I was just hanging with friends so I was totally being myself. The fact that I was supposed to try to live up to some model persona was way above my pay grade and out of my league. Why did I have to fall for an aspiring fashion photographer? After his zooming in on gorgeous girls’ faces and Lawd knows what else, I wondered how someone like me would measure up.

  I was looking forward to that afternoon’s home v-ball game. Not only did I need to work off the frustration from these past two days but I could use a pick-me-up. Volleyball made me happy. And on the court, I could forget that I was still scrambling to get my money right.

  If only I could play every day.

  The echo of sneakers squeaking against the gym floor commingled with crowd chaos and tight fists pounding (and open palms smacking) volleyballs. These are the sounds that
put me at ease. I get a bit nervous before every game, but it’s healthy anxiety that fades minutes after the starting whistle. It usually takes a few contacts with the ball to get me in a good groove.

  I stood at the net, waiting for that moment. The game had just started. My black uniform shorts and red and black top fit snug and my socks were pulled up to my knees. My muscles tensed in anticipation of my first contact with the ball. I watched as our star setter positioned the ball perfectly into my airspace. I jumped to meet it with my fist and sent it jetting over the net. No sooner had I hit it than it returned straight back to me like a bullet. I sprang up and stretched my arms over my head, but the shot pierced my barrier. Thankfully, Star Setter was there with a save that kept the ball in play. When it finally smacked the other team’s floor, the home crowd roared and the scoreboard tallied and flashed. I high-fived SS and knocked elbows with my other teammates.

  By the last quarter, we were ahead two sets. I was in a groove until the flash of a camera caught my eye. After I’d blinked away the red dots from my vision, the person behind the flash came into focus. It was Brent.

  I couldn’t believe it. I was sweating like a hog. It was to the point that beads that had trailed from my brow down my hilly cheeks were dropping from my chin. And my hurr was a hot mess. Thank goodness I’d doubled up on hair bands, otherwise I would’ve been looking like I was hit by lightning or experiencing static shock. I could do nothing about my bleeding elbow and the sweat marks on my shirt. There’s no way a camera could pull cuteness from this picture. After all my tactical outfit planning, it was just my luck that he chose to show up when I looked my worse.